


the grand old duke of york

by o_gets_pegged



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Top Thirteenth Doctor, You've been warned, light feelings, the Master Gets Pegged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25263097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_gets_pegged/pseuds/o_gets_pegged
Summary: O gets pegged. (Finally).
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 67





	the grand old duke of york

“It wasn’t entirely my fault.”

The Doctor spins around, feeling her face congealing into a mask of disgust and anger. “It was entirely, one hundred percent your fault. And don’t make those puppy dog eyes at me, I don’t care  _ how _ cute you look, I’m mad at you.”

“I’m cute?” The Master tilts his head, looking distinctly like O, for a moment there, and the Doctor raises her eyebrows at him. “Am I, though?” (He is. She doesn’t tell him, because she’s still angry, but he is undeniably cute; this was a good form to choose, perfectly and entirely her type. The Doctor loves running her hands through that soft black hair, loves kissing his perfectly shaped mouth, loves seeing those deep brown eyes wide and needy and pleading.)

“Shut up.”

The Master steps up to her and rests a too-controlling hand on the Doctor’s waist. She just manages not to slap it away. “I can’t believe you’re this upset over a glitch in the TARDIS system. You know it’s old.”

“You  _ broke  _ my  _ spaceship _ , first of all, and — get your hand off of me — and you know it’s more than that.”

“You’re still mad at me for putting salt in your tea?” 

The Doctor punches him in the arm, a flirtatious gesture made harsh and angry, and says, “It wasn’t just that. You woke me up at four, you wouldn’t stop singing that horrible song —”

“The Grand Old Duke of York!” protests the Master.

“You abandoned my  _ fam _ .”

“They wanted a holiday.”

The Doctor bares her teeth, any hint of gentleness disappeared. She grabs his arm. “You’ve been  _ antagonizing _ me. All day.”

The Master licks his lips. “Erm.”

She finds herself very close to his face. They’re nearly the same height, this time around, and she finds that she doesn’t dislike it. “You’ve been. Purposely. Trying to get me.  _ Alllll _ riled up.”

He squirms. 

“Well. I am now.” She stabs a finger into his chest, and whispers, a few centimetres from his face: “ _ And what are you going to do now? _ ”

The Master swallows, and she feels something decidedly… hard, pressing against her thigh. He refuses to meet her eyes, and she laughs, hearing the sound short and breathy in the air. “Really?”

“I —”

It’s hardly a defense. The Doctor knows he likes this. She can’t particularly say she doesn’t like this either. “You’re despicable,” she hisses, and the Master clenches his jaw. For a moment, she thinks he’s about to yank her head down and kiss her, and she isn’t sure how she feels about it.

But he shoves her backward, sweeps his foot under her legs, and topples her to the ground without a smudge of tenderness. He’s atop her now, his smile knifelike and glimmering. “Aren’t I?”

“Get off me.” 

A single eyebrow goes up. “Do it yourself.”

The Doctor, long-suffering creature she is, simply stills herself and falls silent. He’ll tire of this game eventually.

“Really, Doctor? No fighting back? Have you lost  _ all _ of your bite already?”

The Doctor grits her teeth, and despite her own common sense, throws him off her and scrambles to pin him down. Yes, she might be short, but while she was regenerating the Doctor had made certain she had admirable muscle strength. The Master doesn’t let her flaunt her newfound victory, though. He knees her in the thigh, sharply, a spot she is sure he chose specifically so she wouldn’t be  _ overly _ angry later.

She growls at him. The Master growls back. 

The Master grabs the back of her hair and kisses her so intensely her lips are sore. She bites at his lip till she tastes the coppery sting of Gallifreyan blood, and a darkly animalistic  _ sound _ escapes the Master’s throat.

The Doctor knows she can do better than this. The Doctor knows she can do worse to him. 

She stands and tugs the Master up by the wrist, a wrenching motion she’s sure hurt him more than he’s willing to let on, and shoves him up against the TARDIS console. She’s always wanted to bend him back over the controls, after all. (The TARDIS is going to be unbelievably mad at her later. The Doctor doesn’t care right now, and judging from the glint in the Master’s eyes, neither does he). 

The Master presses his eyelids closed, as if convincing himself not to say something he’ll regret, and she takes the opportunity to kiss him as deeply as possible. She knows he’s uncomfortable, his back up against the metal like this, and she relishes it. It’s part of the appeal.

“You want me,” she murmurs against his lips.

“No.”

She considers his response for a moment, and kisses him again, finding her hands twisted in his hair. “You want me,” she says again, not leaving room for protest, tracing one fingertip down the bridge of his nose almost softly. Almost.

“I…”

She smiles.

“ _ Please _ ,” he says weakly, a magical, beautiful word, and she steps away.

She considers saying,  _ come here _ , but she doesn’t. The Doctor walks to their bedroom, the world suddenly quiet and unmoving around her, and creaks open the door. She considers how different everything is, without the Master, and thinking this finds the strap-on on the bedside table.

The door creaks behind her. 

“Bed,” she commands, and he lies down meekly, squirming in anticipation. She licks her lips at the sight of him all sprawled out and pretty just for her. It’s incredible how quickly he can go from annoying to gorgeously submissive, she considers, and she crawls up to him to take off his clothes.

The minute her fingertips touch him, gently and softly, a strangled sound passes through his lips like he’s some sort of Catholic martyr. “Doctor,” he whispers, and her fingers trail down his throat. 

She undresses him slowly, every slide of the button through fabric like the new worship of a wonderfully vocal god, brushing his skin lightly with her lips but never, never kissing him. She thinks he is sick with the wanting. No, she  _ wants _ him to be sick with it, she realizes; she wants him to be so aroused he can’t think straight, so horribly needy he begs her for more before she even begins.

“Oh,” she says, a quiet homage, a wishful utterance for a person who never was. 

The Doctor looks at him when she is finished. He is a painting made flesh, all gloriously sculpted and floppy haired and eyes deep enough to drown in. “ _ Now. _ Doctor.”

She is, hopefully, infuriatingly unhurried about getting her own trousers off, putting the strap-on around her waist and fastening it securely. The Master manages to stay, unfortunately, silent while she does, his hands creeping down to his legs. She sees him dig his nails into the mattress to prevent touching himself.  _ Good boy,  _ she thinks, even though he is anything but.

He takes her fingers with those moans of his, not yet loud, and says, “Please,” again. “Please.”

The Doctor revels in these silent moments, when he is not yet flush and high on their shared pleasure. “Apologize, first.”

He chews his bottom lip, a childish act of petulance when he’s about to be beneath her making ungodly noises, and manages, “I’m  _ sorry _ .”

“Again.”

“I said it!”

She strokes his inner thigh. “I said, again.”

“I’m sorry. Doctor.”

The Doctor doesn’t warn him before she eases into him, the plastic pressing up against her clit and making her gasp involuntarily. “You better be.”

“ _ Oh. _ ”

She rides him slowly at first, savoring his uneven sounds — is he gasping? is he moaning? She can’t tell, the noises overlapping each other, but she loves them nonetheless. The Doctor can hardly think with the throbbing of her own bits, moving just for her own pleasure, refusing to touch any part of him. Her hands are braced around his head, and she’s close enough to kiss him — through a Master-induced haze, she thinks about kissing him the whole way through. Their respiratory bypasses could handle it. 

“Doctor,” he says, and she’s brought back to reality. 

His little smirk is pissing the Doctor off, and she hisses, “Stay still” before a particularly hard thrust. The Master does not quite scream (he has screamed for her before, and it was such a deliciously wonderful sound she came off that alone) but he does make a tortured groan like some sexy — animal, or something. Her brilliant mind is spiraling into a billion shimmering shards and, although she tries her best to pick out one, 

He says something disjointed and she thinks about taking him in the palm of her hand and getting him off between them, but he had  _ really _ been a massively insufferable dick and she desperately wants to prolong his glorious suffering. “How do you like me now?” she asks, and to her endless vexation, the Master smiles. 

The Doctor has no idea what happens next. She tangles her hands in his hair as the Master learns her rhythm and moves with her, unable to stop herself from moaning along with him. “Touch me,” he begs, his voice ragged. She does not. “ _ Touch me. _ ”

“You’ve been driving me crazy all” — she cuts herself off with an unintentional whimper of pleasure — “ _ day _ , fuck, and you think I’m going to…” The Master has reached up around her while she wasn’t looking and digs his nails into her back.

“Stop talking,” he says.

“ _ Never _ .” 

The Master tilts his head up and makes those ungodly noises she’d been so hoping for, gasping beneath her. He doesn’t manage a word then, but she does.

“I  _ detest _ you,” she says, and he seems to like it more than she thought. “You’re  _ awful _ . You’ve never done a benevolent thing in your life, and you’ve lived so very  _ long _ .” She admires him again. His throat is exposed to the ceiling, his eyes squeezed tight, relinquishing himself entirely to her. She likes it. She likes it a lot. 

“You —”

She stops her incessant thrusts to lean down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “What was that?” she asks, and there is an edge to even that question. They can never just  _ fuck _ . Why can’t they just fuck?

“You love me,” he gasps, the words ruined from his throat. 

She certainly didn’t expect that, and it sends a flutter of something carnally delightful through her very bones. The Doctor forgets her power play, forgets her slow coaxing of his moans, for those small words. “And you?”

“I’ve always loved you, Doctor,” he says, his voice dangerously even. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

The Doctor closes her eyes at that, disliking the way his tiny words render her useless without a scrap of apology. She scrambles to regain her rhythm, moving in him, finding those nerve endings deep inside of him. It all feels good. It feels _wonderful_.

She likes being the one talking like this, likes being the one he begs for. It was quite the other way around, the last time they did this. (Although she doesn’t think she would mind, even now, being on her knees for Missy. Missy could take her apart with one electric-blue glance.) “And how,” she snarls in his ear, “Do you like it that I’m inside of  _ you  _ now?” 

He squeaks in such a high-pitched octave that dogs can probably understand and, to the Doctor’s immense satisfaction, comes beneath her. She has never seen anybody who comes so beautifully as the Master, with his eyes rolled back in his head and his lips parting ever so slightly. “Oh, God,” he whispers, and that’s how she knows she’s well and truly broken him, to call out for an Earth deity neither of them believes in. 

She gives herself a moment to admire him, soft and broken, before moving inside him again, tilting her hips so the nub of the strap-on hits  _ right there _ , and it is a quick few seconds before she comes too, moaning her husband’s name and squeezing her eyes shut. 

“You said it,” says the Master.

“What?”

“You called me Master.”

The Doctor lies on him, spent, and doesn’t bother to reply for a few long moments. Their breathing synchronizes, the beats of their hearts pounding away together.

Finally, she pulls out of him, silently, and unfastens the strap, fiddling with its fastens. It had been an old thing Missy had left in the TARDIS, from a long time ago, and therefore it was more her style of contraption: overdramatic. Impossible to properly use in a short period of time. Purple. “I said,” she mumbles, her orgasm still casting a very nice haze over her mind, “Nothing of the sort.”

Thankfully, the Master seems more than content to snuggle into the Doctor’s side and kiss her lazily wherever he could. “You were right,” he says.

“I have no idea what I was right about.”

“Neither do I.”

The Doctor drifts to sleep without giving it much more thought, her lungs pushing air in and out of her, her hearts pumping blood in rhythm with the Master. 

She’s always loved him, she thinks.

She doesn’t know how to do anything else.


End file.
